Fencing

Hello all, greetings from Oxford.

Before I begin I’d like to apologize for not writing in the “Shimer in Oxford Blog” sooner. I hope that some of you will still have faith in us and log on to read my story, because it’s kind of interesting. I’m also going out on a limb to write this! We all know how hard it can be to drop our readings, and our Naruto downloads, and our wine/cigarettes, to write.
Anyways, many of you back home already know of my athletic past, and would find it hard to forget that I was at one time an avid fencer. I fenced sabre competitively for about 9 years before quitting, and since being at Shimer have only picked it up once but failed to continue (for a number of reasons). Fencing is a GREAT sport, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not the kind of sport that you can play pick-up at the park. Finding means to fence typically costs a lot of money, and takes a lot of interest to really get going as a fun, competitive sport. You might also imagine the difficulty in finding a place where people will let you play with swords, etc, etc.
Well, since quitting fencing, and since not having a gigantic ocean to play in, my young and restless body can get pretty antsy during the semester (especially during winter!#@%*!). I knew this going into my fourth year here, so I decided to take advantage of my surroundings and sign up with the Oxford University Fencing Club at the U's first year orientation, “Fresher’s Fair.” I found their table, littered with weapons and masks. I picked up a sabre whispering to me in a Tolkienesque tone, “yes, I remember you quite well”. I got to know the captains, signed up, and the next week I was suited up and fencing. I was rusty, horribly rusty- but not too rusty apparently because after my first session I was approached by Mathew Shearman, their team captain, who invited to fence for the official Oxford University Varsity Fencing Squad. Needless to say I was extremely honored and accepted his invitation.
But here’s the funny part: I’m a Shimer student, that is, not so much (if at all) a student at Oxford. How I ended up fencing in Oxford - for one of the most well known, prestigious universities in the world - will keep many of my former teachers and classmates puzzled for a long time. For you to understand what I mean better, you should know how bumpy my life in school(s) has been. With horrible attention issues and habits directing me well away from the road of academia, I was once a candidate for boarding school, special ed, and that special place, death, i.e. “High” School – which for me meant ditching class to hike up a mountain with spliffs and books. I was in no way Harvard bound, or had the mental capacity to ace my way to Oxford! And yet here I am, through some blessed wormhole in life called Shimer.
It’s a slight a farce, but will nonetheless be impressive evidence that I was once “a student at Oxford”… and one who was even good enough to fence on the varsity squad. “But that’s what Oxford’s all about”, Stuart says to me, “sticking your foot in the door.” [For Americans, that is, especially from tiny Great Books schools, I’d add. And not too far or you might lose it to a scornful mien, or, in Lance’s case, a fencing saber. SP] I’m beginning to see why, but that can’t keep me from laughing about the irony of it with my friends here. And thank god for them, too, because when I tried to humiliate myself in front of the Oxford Fencing Squad at the pub, all I received was blank stares and judgmental telepathic thoughts (yes, Oxford students know telepathy).
It’s been alright so far otherwise. We’re 3-1, with our only loss to a very good Cambridge team (“those wankers”). We’re fighting our way to the top of the league where we’ll hopefully meet Cambridge again in the finals. If we do, and win, that would be just as uncanny as me actually being on the team. It would make me twice as happy, too. Keep you posted.

Lance

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Allegory of Truth, Ode to Joy

Pictured at left is Truth, Descending upon the Arts and Sciences to expel Ignorance from the University, by Robert Streator, court portraitist to Charles II. Truth is the caramel-colored infant in the clouds at center, Ignorance the greyish, gorgonesque character at the far right, about to disappear into the upper reaches of the pipe organ (see the photo below for another view). This is the newly-visible ceiling of the Sheldonian Theatre, it having been under restoration for four years until earlier this month. (The chief curator of the project predicted that the unveiling would occasion "much drawing in of breath.") The Sheldonian itself was completed in 1668, the second major outing by Christopher Wren, though his first in Oxford (where he attended Wadham College; his first building was the Chapel at Pembroke College - in Cambridge!). Wren took the Theater of Marcellus in Rome as his model, which made the Sheldonian one of the first major structures in Oxford in the classical idiom. And which accounts for what appears to be a grid of ropes across the painting and the ruddy draping bunched at the edges and around the back (arcing) end. This illusion alludes to the retractable cloth roof that actually hung over Marcellus' theater to let the sun in and keep the rain out, whereas the elements in Oxford are more the stuff of seraphs and demons, of course.


But as Wren found, inviting Truth into the University's meetings, much less simply upholding - her? him? (it's hard to tell a baby's sex from three floors below) - was not quite as airy a proposition as Streator's painting depicts. That is, the Sheldonian's roof presented some novel architectural difficulties. First, a Gothic peak (the usual manner for finishing such a large structure at the time) on top of a classical facade was right out of the question for Wren. His exterior solution was an unassuming roof with a (now much-pictured, as at left) cupola, though this left the problem of finishing the upper reaches of the theatre's interior expanse. The solution there, a plane suspended from above, spanning the 70-foot width of the space inside, was something of a coup engineering-wise at the time. And it served additionally as the floor of an attic space in which the Oxford University Press could store its growing inventory (largely of best-selling Bibles and Prayer Books). Sturdy as the structure seemed, however, there were worries throughout its first century that Truth - particularly, that is, in the form of the Press' books - might descend disastrously onto the unprotected heads of the University's budding Artists and Scientists. But Streator's painting and the boards that held it held up, much to the engineers' delight and Ignorance's presumed chagrin (though he appears to have found permanent lodging in the pipe organ, which was silenced years ago for lack of funds for repair).

The Sheldonian is where the University holds some of its major academic ceremonies - matriculation, graduation, and the like - as well as some lectures. It is also used for conventions, conferences, and recitals and concerts. Handel premiered his Athalia here in 1733. And we've had the luck of being around for the 10th anniversary of the Oxford Philharmonia, which has been celebrating its first decade with performances of Beethoven's five piano concertos and nine symphonies over the past month. The final concert, which paired the 2nd and 9th Symphonies, took place this last Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. (Which, I hope it's needless to point out, the English don't celebrate, though they are nice about wishing to us Yanks, when they remember it. You might return the favor for us to any Brits you meet abroad on Boxing Day). In the late evening before the concert, we strolled toward the Sheldonian on Broad Street, we met up with the Festival of Lights, which opens Oxford's Christmas season (which is celebrated here). During the concert itself, a few of the windows were opened and we could hear merry makers carousing by after the light show outside, making their own diminutive, off-key ode to joy just as the Philharmonia launched into the booming, dissonant opening measures of the choral movement of the 9th.

Now, having learned that the Chicago Symphony Orchestra was recently voted the world's top symphony orchestra, I think it no slur on the Philharmonia to say we have been spoiled (at least those of us who make a trip or two each season to the CSO). The Philharmonia's leader, Marios Papadopoulos, is a stalwart, leading all nine symphonies and playing - heroically, as apt - all the concertos himself in the space of three weeks. But by Friday night's concert, I think the Philharmonia was just a bit tired, and perhaps a bit intimidated. They struggled at moments during the first three movements, missing beats, slurring and muddying lines and just trying to keep up with Beethoven's massive and complicated work. But I am not so interested in sounding like a pissant as in relating what a thrill it was - in the end - to have the evening, and the whole series of concerts, come to a glorious close with Beethoven's Chorale. It could have gone horribly wrong, but the chorus, and the Philharmonia, rose to the occasion. Outside it was a foggy chill, but we had passed, briefly anyway, through Elysium.